


Glasses

by 60beans (FlameEmber)



Series: Never Another One Can Own My Heart [1]
Category: Classicaloid (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Senpai, cute fluff and blushy beet, lost glasses trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 12:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15841098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameEmber/pseuds/60beans
Summary: Schubert falls asleep before the rest of the ClassicaLoids, and wakes up in the middle of the night to find his glasses are nowhere to be found; however, he may just have a little help when it comes to getting them back.





	Glasses

**Author's Note:**

> because I fell in love with this show and this ship
> 
> (this is totally inspired by Schu's missing glasses in S2Ep9)
> 
> also I wrote this while listening to a loop of the third movement of the Eroica symphony, which basically describes Schu's mood by the end of this

He doesn’t know how he managed to fall asleep with his rowdy housemates still surrounding him, their voices mingling in a resounding cacophony capable of rousing even the deepest sleeper. And yet here Schubert is on the sofa as he wakes up alone, a lamp - fuzzy, bright golden orb of light shining directly into his eyes - still on beside him and a blanket tucked around him gently, if not tenderly.

He still has the dishes to do, he realizes: an entire day’s worth of Chopin’s sloppy meals and Mozart’s crusted-on leavings and Beethoven’s charred gyoza to clear away before Schubert can get on to the myriad other chores he knows he must complete before going to bed for the night. A quick glance around the room tells him very little, for without his glasses he can make out nothing but vague, distorted outlines and colors, but he doesn’t hear anything which would indicate anyone else’s presence. The mansion is silent. No Mozart rattling around the halls, no Sousuke forcing his ill-destined digital “tunes” on deaf ears, and no Kanae nagging him to pay rent he has no way of getting.

He has to say, the silence is refreshing. Blinking sticky threads of sleep from puce eyes he yawns, reaches towards the folded pair of spectacles he knows rests gently on the table beside the sofa - and swipes at thin air and nothing more.

Schubert sits up sharply, struggling to free himself from the soft yellow blanket - his jacket - as he rubs blearily at unseeing eyes, the light attacking what remains of his vision. He frowns; no, surely his glasses are there, he must simply have miscalculated the distance in his half-asleep state, that is all.

Once more, his fingers meet only the smooth wooden surface of the table, narrowly missing knocking a lamp to the floor as he flounders with the sudden fire of panic alight in his chest. He can’t feel those rounded frames anywhere. In desperation he whips around and squints at the table with his face mere inches from the wood, but not even a single silhouette resembling his requisite spectacles appears in his grainy field of vision.

“Get it together, Franz,” the newly-blinded composer hisses to himself with teeth tightly grit. If his glasses aren’t on the couch-side table, then he (or another one of the ClassicaLoids) must have accidentally knocked them to the floor. Simple enough.

Schubert rolls his body awkwardly to the side and off the low sofa, landing on his knees and elbows on the carpeted floor with a sudden shooting pain in these bony areas and an audible " ** _thwump_** " that makes him grimace. Still squinting indistinctly at the floor he begins to grope around blindly in hopes of coming across his lost glasses, feeling the carpet beneath his fingers and the hardwood of the floor, but nothing else. He even lifts up the edge of the sofa upholstery and peers into the abyss beneath, but this too is a fruitless endeavor. It reminds him of the time Chopin hid all of the circular objects in the mansion, including Franz’s glasses.

Still tired after his impromptu nap, he is so frustrated by his glasses’ continued evasion of his grasp that he feels as if his Musik will burst forth from him against his will again, like a balloon filled with too much air. The position he’s in - leaning with his head bent downwards, scalp pressed to the carpet as he searches around under the sofa with his hands this time - is making him feel more than a little lightheaded, his heartbeat thumping so loudly in his ears that Schubert doesn’t hear the soft creak of someone padding barefoot down the stairs, nor does he hear the accompanying yawn.

He lifts his head after surmising that the spectacles most likely did not make their way under the sofa kicked by careless feet, and pauses with his head cocked slightly to the right; there’s something directly in front of him that he could have sworn wasn’t there before. Franz takes mental stock in his head of the living room - sofa, tables, chairs, lamps, television. He still can’t think of anything that has any right to be _right there_ , and scowls lightly. The **thing** isn’t moving, and he can’t seem to sense anything other than a few splashes of white and orange, so he reaches out impulsively and rests his hand on it.

It’s warm under his touch, and lets out a low grunt, sounding curious and confused more than anything, really. Schubert yelps awkwardly, yanking his hand away as if the thing - _person_ \- were scalding hot.

“Schubert-kun?”

The younger composer instantly freezes. He knows he must look a mess, on his hands and knees on the floor with no glasses, his hair bedraggled. Defeated he falls back on his knees with legs tucked beneath him in some semblance of decorum, face flushing a soft shade of flustered coral.

“B-Beethoven-senpai!”

Of all his housemates to wake up in the middle of the night, come downstairs and see him in such an embarrassing scenario, of course it has to be Beethoven. Schubert feels like running his hands through his hair in an effort to smooth down the slept-on frizziness, but his hands lie limply at his sides; he knows there’s no use.

And yes, when he peers closer at the figure he supposes he **can** tell that it’s Beethoven crouching before him, even if he has to get so close that he can practically feel the body heat emanating from the other man. He can see the familiar orange shirt, and Ludwig’s grey boxer sleeping shorts… or are they his underwear? The mere thought makes Franz glow slightly redder and tug at the collar of his shirt while averting his gaze, although it is a completely moot point if he can’t even make anything out without his glasses.

“Senpai… Surely a man of your genius must need more sleep than this? I apologize if I woke you, I did not mean to make so much noise!”

Beethoven blinks in a shutter of green, folding his arms over his chest in a motion Schubert can clearly see even without his missing lenses.

“I awoke some time ago, but found myself unable to fall back asleep, plagued by some memory which yet refuses to make itself known to me. As persistent as glimmers of musical melodies, so close yet _so far_ from my grasp - fate, you are but a cruel mistress!” He grinds his teeth in a sudden flash of fury, clenching both hands into fists raised high in the air as he manages to shout in a hushed voice, a remarkable feat indeed. Momentary loud outcry falling flat, Ludwig scowls, refolds his arms, and closes intense teal-green eyes.

“I thought perhaps cooking gyoza would help to clear my mind.”

There is little else Schubert can do but nod, playing idly with his fingers as he loses himself in contemplation. He hates to trouble his beloved senpai for help, but he can’t imagine life without his glasses, forever bumping into door-frames and chairs and tripping over Mozart’s infernal skateboard.

“I seem to have misplaced my glasses… clumsy, I suppose, but if you wouldn’t mind…?” He’s a bit red in the face again with embarrassment, twisting his fingers together rather than merely fiddling with them as red-violet eyes pointedly gaze down and off to the side. Luckily, Beethoven seems to catch his drift without his needing to finish the sentence, and nods solemnly.

It’s nice to have someone beside him to help him look, even if it means he is incredibly careful not to bump into Ludwig and cause himself further humiliation. When their fingers brush together inadvertently, it’s Schubert who jerks his hand away hurriedly, cheeks stained a warm pink. The other man only looks at him quizzically.

Luckily for everyone involved, it’s only a few more short minutes of crawling around beneath tables and around lamps before Beethoven frowns at the unexpected sensation of something **hard** caught between his upper thigh and the side of the sofa, delving his hand into his pocket only to bring out - Schubert’s missing glasses. He vaguely remembers now; they’d been lying on the floor of his and Mozart’s room beside Wolfgang’s hammock-bed, and Ludwig had picked them up more as an afterthought than any byproduct of conscious decision. The dots had simply not connected in his mind (overtired and slightly sleepy, despite the manic insomnia) until now.

Franz doesn’t notice the sudden discovery of his spectacles in the slightest, still face-down on his belly on the carpet trying to squint beneath the sofa for what must be at least the tenth time. Feeling a churning in his stomach that he can’t explain away with simple hunger for gyoza, Beethoven clears his throat loudly. The shorter man gets to his knees, leaning closer to examine the fuzzy outlines of the object that he supposes must be his glasses. Oddly, Ludwig doesn’t offer them up.

“Wolf’s idea of a prank, I suppose.”

Of course that pink-haired demon was responsible, he should have known! He can practically see the little shit smirking while slipping those circular frames into his ugly plaid shorts. Perhaps the next time Schubert’s Musik causes the household to transform into fish or babies or whatever else, Mozart can remain that way indefinitely. That would certainly teach him, he muses with the smirk of a man lost in his own self-indulgent fantasies. Beethoven stares.

“Schubert-kun?”

Snapping out of his delusional daze, which features a salmon version of Mozart being hunted down by bears, Schubert blinks at his senpai, sitting back on his calves as he fiddles absentmindedly with the open collar of his white shirt.

He’s not exactly sure what he expects to happen next, but it’s certainly not for the object of his impossible daydreams (more like fantasies, really) to frown in concentration as he reaches out, settles the round glasses onto the bridge of Franz’s nose with a delicacy unexpected of Beethoven. Schubert is almost too distracted blinking away the last vestiges of blurriness and relishing in being able to _see clearly again_ to register the surprisingly soft press of Ludwig’s lips against his forehead. The tiny kiss is fleeting but sweet; neither man moves a muscle for a moment. Even after Beethoven draws his swiftly-reddening face away his fingers linger on the younger composer’s skin a moment longer than is perhaps necessary, trailing slowly down Schubert’s pink cheek and slipping through the messy strands of curly reddish-brown - brushing against his neck - as they pull away.

Franz stares. His senpai’s disheveled mess of white hair is even more rumpled now than it is usually; Ludwig looks thoroughly ruffled, and the bit of hair at the back that’s sticking straight up betrays exactly where he’s been lying on it. There’s a certain degree of tiredness in those green eyes, but also a glimmer of frenzied inspiration, or perhaps it’s the nervousness in his own eyes simply mirrored back at him - Schubert can’t quite tell.

Still virtually reeling from the shock of being kissed, albeit just on the forehead, Franz lets his fingertips brush the spot on his forehead where Ludwig’s lips have just been, his mouth seemingly frozen in a permanent “O” of surprise. His skin still feels like it burns red-hot, although that could just as easily be the soft roseate blush seeping into his cheeks.

_S-senpai!_

“Senpai, I…” Giving voice to his thoughts at last, Schubert curls his fingers into the fabric of his waistcoat, lest he do something he regret and reach to grab the taller man’s arm, tug him back to him so their chests press flat. It may have only been a tiny peck on the forehead, and probably meaningless to Ludwig, but Franz’s breath leaves his throat in shivers and slight gasps as he wonders what it would be like if Beethoven kissed him properly. A silly dream, he knows, but since when has there ever been harm in dreaming? The side of his neck tingles as he touches it without thinking.

“You should be more careful with your possessions in future, Franz,” Ludwig calls back as he wanders out of the room with his hands clasped behind his head in that wild mess of white hair, tone stern and almost cold; it might be more convincing if his face wasn’t approximately the same color as a fresh strawberry, blush almost as intense as a pink highlighter.

Schubert is too preoccupied with the fact _Beethoven just used his first name_ to notice.


End file.
